So Tonight That I Might See
by Charlotte88
Summary: One-shot. "Her gaze is soft and enquiring, a hint of vulnerability lingering behind the mask of independence."


**So Tonight That I Might See**

You feel the need to grip your glass of beer tightly, watching as your protruding knuckles turn white, and curse whoever's idea it was to come to the pub.

A drink had been all that you wanted; a simple, quiet drink with Nikki and Leo where you can put the horrors that you'd seen that week behind you.

What you did not want, when you had agreed to this outing earlier that morning, was for Leo to back out at the last minute and for Nikki to spend the evening flirting with every man in sight.

For the past half an hour you've sat at your 'secluded' table in the corner watching as your best friend throws herself at an extremely handsome and extremely charismatic guy over by the bar.

If you'd been a violent man, you wouldn't have wasted anytime in going over there and swinging your fist at his annoyingly well-sculptured jaw.

The way he's leering at her angers you. As does her apparent oblivion to what he's really after. Men like him only ever want one thing; you know because so often on a Friday night you're one of those men. Getting so drunk that you can't remember why you were drinking in the first place, picking up some pretty young thing who deserves better than you.

The arse at the bar slips his hand onto Nikki's waist as he laughs at something she said. Surely she can't be that blind? Or desperate?

The loud hubbub of conversation around you is starting to make your head pound. Your eyes are itching with fatigue. Yet, you're reluctant to go home. You've convinced yourself that it's because you're fulfilling your capacity as aforementioned best friend and looking out for her, making sure she doesn't meet some guy who's particularly unsuitable, more so than the others.

See, this is the reason why you'd rather stay in and watch a movie with her. They're the moments that you love the best, when it's just you and her and you can talk about everything or nothing at all. Not these moments right now, where you're sitting alone observing her pick-up lines and incessant flirting.

Maybe you're being a little harsh. Compared to the vast majority of women you've seen out tonight, Nikki's practically timid. But still, she's not going out of her way to ward off the men who have approached her, and that irritates you.

He makes her laugh, Mr. Arse, and that increases your frustration. _You're_ meant to be the one who makes her laugh. When her face breaks into that smile, her eyes lighting up, her head tipping to the side slightly as her soft curls tumble over her face ... You're supposed to produce that reaction, not some guy she's only just met.

Downing the rest of your beer with a bitter grimace, completely ignoring the advances of a gaggle of inebriated hen night girls, you cross to the bar, coming to a halt at Nikki's elbow.

"Harry!" she smiles, "Where have you been?"

Her cheeks are a little flushed from the alcohol and you bite back a surly retort about her ditching you, well aware that Arseface is listening.

"I'm going home," you tell her instead, shrugging your blazer on over your jumper.

"Already?" she exclaims, a slight whine to her tone that you suspect wouldn't be there if it weren't for the alcohol. "Why?"

"It doesn't matter, does it?" McArse pipes up, "Let him leave, Nikki. We don't want him cramping our style."

It's the final straw, as far as you're concerned. "You want to know why I'm leaving?" you shoot at her, turning your back to McArse, "Because I've had enough of watching you make a fool of yourself with this waste-of-space."

You turn away before you can see the hurt which you know will be shining in her eyes. You're fully aware that you've overstepped the mark, but it's too late now. So you're taking the cowards way out and heading for the exit.

Once you reach the pavement outside you stop. Leaning against the wall, you cringe at the way you handled the situation – or didn't handle, in this case. Only she gets to you like this. Of all the people in your life, it's Nikki and Nikki alone who can make you feel this way. Yet you're not even sure what 'this' is. There's something there... Something more than friendship, something less platonic than you both like to think it is.

Why are you so bloody angry all the time? At yourself, at the men she flirts with, and even – to some extent – Nikki herself. It's an inexplicable kind of anger that consumes you completely, yet you have no idea why it's there. It's always been there, hidden away inside you somewhere. It's only been the last few months when it's really become more prominent.

You're just contemplating the continuation of your sorrow-drowning in the comfort of your own home when the doors behind you are flung open and Nikki storms out onto the street, her heels clicking furiously on the concrete.

A small sigh escapes your lips and you push off from the wall, attempting to cross the road towards the taxi rank. However, before you can take more than one step a hand grabs your arm and she tugs you around.

"What the _hell_ was that?" she demands. Perhaps you're not the only one who's angry.

"That was me telling you that I'm going home," you say with forced casualness. "Now, if you don't mind."

You pull your arm from her grip and cross the road, but she's right on your heel. "Stop walking away from me, Harry Cunningham!" she shouts after you.

"What? What is it that you want?" you ask, slightly irritated, spinning around once you're safely on the opposite pavement.

"You had no right to speak to me like that in front of Justin! Who do you think you are to judge him? Judge both of us?" she snaps, standing right in front of you and glaring furiously.

"Justin?" you repeat with a derisive snort. "I'm sorry, I'll just run back in there and apologise to poor _Justin_."

"Shut up, you know that's not what I meant," she says impatiently, and there's a hint of desperation in her voice.

"Look, I'm tired and I want to go home," you say shortly. "Can't we discuss this tomorrow morning?"

You don't wait for an answer, but head straight for a taxi and climb into the back. You quickly relay your address to the driver, but before he can pull away the door opens again and Nikki flops down into the seat beside you.

"Get your own bloody taxi!" you declare, in shock at her sudden appearance.

"I want answers, Harry. I'm sick of you and your moods lately," she tells you.

The taxi driver is frowning at you in his rear-view mirror. You sigh and say, "It's all right, she's with me."

Folding her arms haughtily across her chest, Nikki huffs and then remains silent for the rest of the journey. You wonder why she's even bothering with this campaign if she isn't going to speak to you, but you daren't ask her that. As soon as the taxi pulls up outside your building, she's out of the car. You pay the driver, who nods his thanks and mutters, "Good luck with that one, mate."

"I have a feeling I'm going to need it," you reply, climbing out of the vehicle.

Not until you enter your apartment do you finally crack and say, "I can't give you answers if you don't ask me questions, you know."

A little part of you is still angry at her, yet you can't help but notice that she left the Arse in the bar to come home with you, even if you are both braced for a blazing row.

"What did you mean when you said I was making a fool of myself?" she asks quickly, pacing your lounge while you stand still near the sofa.

"What do you think I meant?" you retort. "You were throwing yourself at that loser like a-"

You falter and fall silent, but the damage has already been done. Hurt flashes in her eyes, as well as anger and something else that you can't quite place, but which resembles disappointment.

"Like a what, Harry?" she asks, her voice dangerously low.

You murmur something about it not being important, how it doesn't matter, but she's not taking no for an answer.

Her fists clench, all traces of alcohol gone, and she screams at you, "Like a _what_, Harry?"

"Like a tart!" you shout, her reaction clearly indicating that she wasn't expecting you to actually say it.

There's a stunned silence for a moment, then she folds her arms across her chest and – with an apparent newfound determination – says sharply, "Is that really what you think of me?"

"No," you say, more softly. "But you are willing to accept any bloke who approaches you with a drink and bad chat-up line-"

You're not finished, but she cuts you off with a slightly hysterical laugh. "All these years," she says angrily, "all the jokes you've made about 'men in my bed'. That's all I thought they were, just jokes. But you've meant everything you said, haven't you? You think I'm some promiscuous slapper who'll take any guy for a quick shag."

You physically flinch at her words. "Stop it!"

"What I want to know is why, Harry?" she continues. "Why does it bother you who I sleep with?"

That's a _very_ good question. You're not entirely sure you know the answer. "Because!" you say loudly. "Because we were meant to be going for a drink tonight, together, and instead I was left sitting on my own like some social reject while you were getting chatted up by _Justin_!"

"I asked you to come and join us!" she protested.

"Only to be polite," you rebuke, "I'd rather have sat on my own than with you like a spare part!"

"Then why are you even bringing it up?" she cries. "For God's sake, Harry! What are you, jealous?"

"No – no, of course I'm not jealous," you say quickly.

Nikki freezes, her mouth open and her eyes wide. "Oh my God, you're jealous," she confirms quietly.

"No, I'm not!" you insist, but even you start to disbelieve your own words. It's all starting to make sense, in a mildly terrifying sort of way. "I just don't want to see you getting hurt!"

She starts pacing again and you fall silent, unsure of what to say next and petrified that you're going to screw everything up. A tiny part of you almost wants her to bring up the jealousy again just so that you're forced to confront whatever it is that you're feeling. However, it seems as if she considers it unimportant for she doesn't mention it when she speaks again, and not for the first time that evening you curse yourself for being such a coward.

"I'm not stupid, you know," she mutters quietly, her anger dissipated somewhat. "I knew what Justin was after."

"So why didn't you just ignore him?" you ask despairingly. "What on earth were you trying to prove?"

She shrugs and you can see the sadness in her eyes. "I don't know. That men still find me attractive?"

"You would do what you did tonight just to prove that you've still 'got it'?" you ask, repressing the derisive snort and disdainful tone.

"Maybe I just want someone to see me," she whispers ambiguously, and just for a millisecond her eyes catch yours and it takes your breath away. But then she looks down at her feet and the moment has evaporated.

"I don't think you're a tart," you tell her cautiously.

Scoffing, she says, "You've got a funny way of showing it."

"I _do_ think that you deserve better."

She watches you warily, as if she's struggling to grasp the meaning of your words. "What?" she snaps.

"I see you, Nikki," you say simply, "I can _always_ see you."

She's not stupid; she knows exactly what you mean. Her lips part slightly to accommodate the small gasp that escapes them. Her feet move backwards, one, two, three steps away from you and she almost imperceptibly shakes her head. It isn't the reaction you'd hoped for and a rush of something closely resembling inexplicable grief washes over you.

"Don't, Harry," she whispers, her arms wrapped around herself, hugging herself tightly. She's defensive, building the barriers to shut you out. "Please, don't."

"Why?" you plead, summoning a newfound sense of bravado. "I thought it was what you wanted?"

"It is," she insists, desperately sad, "More than anything."

"Then why-?"

"Because you do this, Harry," she near enough cries. "And I think you do it completely unknowingly half the time. But you drop a comment into our conversation, or randomly take my hand, or act jealous around the men I see, and I raise my hopes that you're potentially open to the possibility of something more between us. Only for you to shatter those hopes in the next moment when you go out and pick up some girl, or-"

"Nikki, stop," you say firmly, finally beginning to understand her.

Her voice so quiet now that you strain to hear it, she says, "I can't keep falling, Harry, or else I'll never get back up."

There are tears shining in her large, doe-like eyes. The sudden crushing realisation that those tears are there because of you, because of your insensitivity and denial and ignorance over the years, is heartbreaking.

Crossing the room to eliminate the ten foot gulf between you, your fingers gently wipe the tears away from her pale cheeks. She leans into your touch and you fight the urge to just swoop down and kiss her there and then. Instead, however, you mutter, "Date me."

A soft giggle escapes her. "What?"

"Date me. Let's go out for dinner tomorrow. See where we go from there," you suggest.

"Dinner? In a posh expensive restaurant?" she smiles.

"Actually, I was thinking the pub on the corner," you joke and she chuckles, then falls silent and looks you directly in the eyes. Her gaze is soft and enquiring, a hint of vulnerability lingering behind the mask of independence.

"We're actually going to do this?" she whispers, "After all this time?"

You're not sure what to say, so instead you tilt your head and close the already small gap between you. When your lips gently connect with hers it's like everything has finally fallen into place, and you hadn't even been aware of what was missing until that moment. You can feel her tentatively place a palm against your chest, and a second later her other fingers are playing with the hair on the nape of your neck. Your own hands are on her waist.

In no way is it a cliché movie kiss: full of passion and hunger and desire. It's so much softer than that, more apprehensive and careful. That's not to say that there isn't passion there, there's always passion between the two of you, just that this time it's taken the form of what can only be described as love rather than lust.

Pulling away, somewhat reluctantly, you grin. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, you whisper, "Tomorrow."

A smile graces her gentle features, then she says, "Can I sleep in your spare room? I don't fancy getting a taxi this time of night."

It's something she's done many times before, so you nod automatically. Still smiling at you, she pauses for a moment, before standing on tiptoes to kiss you on the cheek. "'Night," she says quietly.

She disappears into your guest room, the routine familiar to both of you. There's an old pair of her pyjama bottoms and one of your t-shirts – because somehow she always forgets one of her own – in the top drawer. In the morning she'll be up before you and make you a coffee using the machine that you can never be bothered to turn on, and sometimes it's so domestic that you can't help craving more.

A surge of excitement sweeps through you when you think of the promise of your 'date' tomorrow evening, and with a smile on your face you also head to bed.

What you don't expect is to be awoken in the early hours of the morning by a small, warm figure slipping under the covers beside you, pulling herself close against you and burying her chin in the crook of your neck.

"It's two a.m.," she whispers, while your sleepy brain tries to process what's happening, "so technically, it's tomorrow."

"You're just lucky I'm wearing my pyjamas," you mutter, your voice rough.

A giggle escapes her and you chuckle, holding her against you tightly.

"Goodnight, Nikki," you smile.

"Goodnight, Harry."

* * *

><p><strong>Oh, the cheese. I apologise. It's the kind of mood I've been in lately.<strong>

**I have another one-shot that's not so corny that I'm working on, but I'm very busy over the next few days (IT'S TOTALLY MY 18TH BIRTHDAY ON MONDAY!) so it might not be up for a while. ;)**

**Ooh, and a belated thank you to everyone who reviewed the final chapter of _Hickory, Dickory, Dock. _Your feedback is much appreciated and loved. :)**

**Charlotte xxx**


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